


Sauna

by Vera



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-04-03
Updated: 1998-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera/pseuds/Vera





	Sauna

For as far as I can see it's flat, acres and acres of grassland rolling away, broken up by yurts. "Gies," Krycek says, "we call them gies. They're made of horsehide."

 

The revulsion must show on my face because he smiles at me.

 

The train is full of young people of all nationalities, mostly backpackers. They drink copiously and play card games all night. Krycek's been flirting with the girls in our compartment. He speaks German as well. Of course he does. I'm not sure what he's told them about us, but it can't be the truth, they smile at me occasionally and try out their English. It's good, but they prefer talking to him. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Butter wouldn't melt here anyway. I can feel the cold through the double-glazed window.

 

We disembark in a small town by a lake. Krycek tells me that the locals believe swimming in the lake will add years to your lifespan. It looks more likely to take off my balls.

 

"We'll leave the train here," he says to me. He kisses our travelling companions and exchanges addresses with them, promising to visit, assuring them of his delight at the idea of showing them around Chicago.

 

"Chicago?" I ask as I follow him out of the station. He smiles at me but doesn't answer.

 

My stomach is full of acid. I'm caught between my dislike of him and profound distrust of the country I'm in, my eyes slip off him like water off oil, but my path is tied to him. Is he taking me where I want to go?

 

He's as much a danger to keep with me as not.

 

The house he leads me to is low and rambling. "We'll stay here tonight."

 

"I want to keep going," I tell him.

 

He knocks on the door. It's opened by a small pudding of a woman who ushers us in to a warm interior, all wood and thick homespun.

 

I'm still not sure what's going on. I know where I need to be, but my path there is in his hands.

 

The pudding woman shows us into a small room, chatters something. He smiles at her and she leaves us alone. He starts to undress, pauses and smiles at me. "Don't you want to wash it all away?" he asks. "All the dirt?"

 

He expects me to have a bath with him?

 

"It's a sauna, Mulder. Last one in's a rotten egg." Then he's naked and through a low door and I'm standing alone in a room in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere, Russia.

 

I can smell myself and it's not pleasant. Will I cut off my nose to spite my face?

 

I undress and follow him.

 

It's a small sauna and there's a limit to how far away we can sit from each other on one small bench. He wears nudity well. His eyes are closed. Sweat is running down his chest and over his belly. It drips off the end of his cock, hanging between his parted thighs. I feel prim and overdressed in the thin towel.

 

"Do you trust me so easily?" I ask.

 

He smiles, but doesn't open his eyes. Will that be all the answer he gives me?

 

"No," he says eventually.

 

I reach out and run my hand over his head. "You need a better hairdresser."

 

"I'll remember that next time redneck terrorists rescue me from being buried alive."

 

My fingers are stroking his cheek and then his throat. I feel him tense and swallow beneath my touch. He doesn't trust me, after all. That's good. I slip my hand around the back of his neck. Long as my fingers are, it would still take two hands to encircle his throat. I let go and his eyelids flutter. I allow him to think I've finished playing with him. Before he can move, I'm straddling him, holding his shoulders against the smooth timber wall, pinning him on the bench with my weight, thumbs pressed against his throat. He jerks and his hands move up to push me off, to fight. His instincts are good, but they betray the game he's playing. Instead of a blow, his hands touch my chest softly and slip down to my waist. He still hasn't opened his eyes. He licks sweat off his lips. Sweat gathers where our bodies meet. It feels disgusting in a pleasant way. It feels like mud pies, like lubricant.

 

I stroke his collarbone with my thumbs. I settle on his thighs and my cock touches him. It slides against his slick skin, catching along short hair. The towel has half fallen off me. His hands are touching it at my waist. Does it stop his hands moving lower? "Take the towel off me," I tell him. And he does. His compliance thrills me. His hands are on me again, stroking the small of my back with just enough pressure to suggest he wants me closer. I oblige. Now we are cock to cock and I can feel myself responding. Did he plan for this as well? Has all the submission been to manoeuvre me into this intimacy? If all the blood wasn't in my cock, I'd be alarmed. I think I'd be alarmed. He has motives beyond the instructions of his employers. I hope they're his. I don't care.

 

He's urging me against him now. We are so oily with sweating it's hard to hold on, the dry wood of the bench anchors us. He's kissing my throat and I'm encouraging him. Is that me saying, "yes, yes"? It must be, his mouth is busy giving me a hickey.

 

I thrust hard against him, he lets me do all the work down there. No, his hands are between the cheeks of my ass, still slick, everywhere slippery with sweat. I feel his fingers against my asshole. He's not? He is. He does.

 

The intrusion makes me come. I'm crushing him, I'm dying. I can't believe this is happening. I'm light and heat and pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.

 

When I return to myself his head is resting against my shoulders, his arms are around me, he feels so good. I feel like shit. The truth does not leave me alone for long. Here is my father's murderer in my arms and the guilt is a vise around my heart. It makes me cruel and I'm glad.

 

I get off him, he's looking up at me with soft, dark, vulnerable eyes. Is this him? Is this really him? I punch him in the face and in the stomach. My fist is covered in our combined ejaculate. He's bent double and coughing, blood on his lips.

 

I use the towel to wipe my hand and belly, wrap it around myself and leave.


End file.
